


all we ever wanted was everything

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 80s AU, Alcohol, First Time, GoT au, Jon Snow - Freeform, Jon is a tiny goth bass player, Jonmund, Lighthearted, M/M, MeetCute, PWP, Recreational Drug Use, Tormund Giantsbane - Freeform, Tormund is a great strapping drummer in a metal band, You do the math, band au, best sibling in a supporting role Arya Stark, both consensual, m/m - Freeform, safe sex and unprotected sex, sex - anal, sex - manual, sex - oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 16:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20084965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/printersdeadly/pseuds/printersdeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: The tag-along bass player in his siblings' goth band, Jon occasionally needs time to himself to work it all out. He finds unlikely clarity in a dirty club back alley in the form of metalhead drummer, Tormund Giantsbane.





	all we ever wanted was everything

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo... 80s goth/punk AU, set in the UK, with the Stark kids. What more could you want? xo

Jon is sweat drenched and adrenaline charged when they get off stage, his bass slung over his back. The fretboard bangs against his leg as he picks up an open bottle of booze from the stool that's served as their dressing table backstage and takes a draining gulp.

The green room is far too full of bodies. He can feel his stage make-up smudging as he sweats under his leather jacket. 

“All right there Jon? You’re looking a bit antsy.” Robb passes him the joint he’s been smoking and he takes it, shrugging his jacket on.

“Yeah, need a breather. Gonna go outside for a few minutes. Thanks.” He shoots Robb a smile then hurries out the rickety back door to the alleyway outside. Last thing he sees is Arya making a face over her bass drum.

Outside, the sky is unusually clear, the city smog making way for a few distant stars. Feeling himself start to relax slowly, Jon alternates between the joint in his one hand and the mostly-empty bottle of vodka in the other. The alley between the two clubs is narrow, and occupied mostly by dustbins and broken glass, but listening to the two colliding dins from both clubs is soothing in its way. It's good enough for his purposes, which are to cushion himself against the adrenaline's ebb.

A clatter and a few shouts erupt from a door a little down the way before it bangs open. Jon wrinkles his nose; the music emanating from the portal is uncomfortably loud. It dims again when the door closes, and the formidable looking fellow by the bottle bin is in a similar state to Jon, sweating and colourful enough that Jon decides he's part of an act. He's loaded down with plaid and leather and chains. He spits, sniffs, and looks in Jon's direction.

"All right then?" he rumbles, accent unusual and voice low.

"Can't complain." Jon pauses, and holds out the joint.

The guy's face lights up. "Cheers." He takes a toke, piercings glinting in the low light. "You're not from these parts."

"Neither are you." Jon points with the vodka bottle. "We opened at the Blitz tonight."

"Ah, you play. Let me guess. Bassist."

"Good guess," Jon says skeptically, taking the joint back and puffing before passing it back. The guy nods to the strap on Jon's chest, and he remembers his bass heavy against his back and flushes faintly. Whatever, he doesn't care what some ginger punk - enormous ginger punk, that is - thinks of him. Jon takes him in for a moment, cut from shadow and yellow streetlights. He’s got long, wild red hair, and jeans that appear to be held together almost entirely with patches. His bare arms are dark with intricate, stylised ink, maybe Nordic style, Jon thinks.

After a moment, perhaps his study has become too close, because the stranger cocks his head.

"You look like a drummer," Jon guesses.

That gets him a laugh, loud in the skinny alley. Jon just sighs. He hates people.

"Is it the beard?" the guy guesses.

"Arms," Jon mutters, and then turns outright crimson. God, he needs to drink less. That never tends to work out for him either, though.

The guy raises an eyebrow, and then chuckles again, a slightly different sound. "They always give me away."

"Maybe some sleeves," Jon mumbles.

Another big laugh, and the drummer looks at his shredded, spiked vest. "How would people know then?"

"You could - I mean. Some of them would. Because of your shows. Not me of course, I wasn't there."

“Oh I know that. I’d have remembered seeing you.” He comes closer, his eyes dark with mischief when the light hits them. He reaches out and touches absently at the ribbed embroidery on Jon’s leather jacket. Something turns warm in his expression as his hand drifts up to the collar at Jon’s throat; down to the layers of fishnet and black cotton on his chest. His touch leaves a spark of warmth behind in the chilly night.

"You should come to the next one. We're on again tomorrow night. Unless you're moving on-?"

Releasing the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, Jon half-nods. "I'd have to ask."

"Do… I'd like to see you there."

Jon tilts his head. "Really? Why's that?"

"I like the look of you."

"Oh aye?" He laughs a bit at that. "Sweaty and covered in grease paint?"

"Aye, it's doin' somethin' for me. That a problem?"

Jon laughs helplessly. His uncertainty trips into something more solid, and it makes him blush. "No?" He's pretty sure he's high and hallucinating, but no.

"Good. You want a drink?"

Jon waggles his vodka bottle. "Whose is better?"

The ginger wets his lips; raises the eyebrow again. "Want to go for a walk then?"

"Sure," Jon shrugs, “lemme just -" he points to his bass.

"Aye, all right."

Cursing himself under his breath, he opens the club door and leans his bass against the wall inside. 

"Robb, going for a walk," he calls, to an affirmative of, “_just be back by soundcheck tomorrow_!” - standard code among them all by now. Anyone who complains to him about their families these days gets a "try living in a camper van with them" in response.

He closes the door behind him and gestures. "Do you have a name, then?" he asks the drummer.

"I'll trade you," he grins.

"Jon," he murmurs.

"Jon what?"

"Snow," Jon cuts him a glance.

"Of course. I'm Tormund."

"Tormund what?" Jon replies.

"Ah, Giantsbane." He shrugs at Jon's enquiring gaze.

"Not from around here?"

"Norway. Ever been?"

Jon shakes his head. "No, never even left England."

"Well. You might like it if you ever do."

"The idea is to get out of here, anyway," Jon agrees mildly. It's Robb's ambition really - Jon just happened the be able to play bass guitar. That, and their parents _hate_ it. Well - Catelyn does. Ned simply endures.

The ginger - Tormund - just laughs. "Isn't it always?"

"You as well?"

"Well, you know, fame and fortune… and a bit of ass," Tormund shrugs.

Jon laughs. "How's that portion of things coming on?"

"I'll let you know when we get where we're going."

Jon isn't quite sure whether he means the fame or the ass, so he just tucks his hands into his pockets and carries on walking beside him. "I don't really listen to metal or punk," he blurts out after a moment of silence.

"No? Maybe you should. What do you listen to?"

Jon looks down at his outfit - yes, still all black - and back up at Tormund.

"Ah," says Tormund. He's smiling again. He reaches out and touches the band at Jon's throat again - leather, spiked. "You like this kind of thing?"

Jon nods. "Our band's called The Direwolves," he murmurs. "It's sort of a theme."

"A little Iggy Pop, that."

Jon shrugs. "You'd have to ask Robb."

"I don't know who Robb is, crow, and I don't care. I'm asking you."

"He's our lead singer," Jon mumbles, blushing.

"I don't care," Tormund repeats, not unkindly.

"More like Bauhaus," Jon replies.

"You are a little Siouxsie Sioux."

"I'm not a girl," he points out.

"Fucking hell, are you not?" Another big, rumbling laugh. "Pretty as one, but I know you're a boy, little crow."

"Just, uh. Just saying."

"You thought I didn't know?"

“No, I. I don’t know what I thought.” He’s blushing again, glad it's dark. He holds out the bottle of vodka as their shadows stretch out under the streetlamps, and with a murmur of thanks, Tormund takes it and drinks.

They stop on the bridge despite a few milking tourists, looking out over the canal. Tormund takes another toke on the joint and hands both it and the bottle back to Jon. "Thanks," he says lazily. "Feeling pretty mellow now."

Jon takes the last hit off the blunt and stubs it out on the lip of the iron bridge, leaning back against it to exhale smoke. "Me too," he says. "Much as ever, anyway."

"Which is to say, not much?" Tormund guesses.

Jon shakes his head sadly.

"Aw, none of that now." One big, warm hand lands on his shoulder and gently squeezes. Jon tries to decide whether to lean in or pull away. Maybe Tormund sees, because he lifts his hand away gingerly. "All right?"

Jon nods and shuffles a little closer, until their arms brush. He doesn't say anything, but Tormund seems to relax.

"I like the water," Jon says finally, staring down thoughtfully.

"I always preferred the ocean," Tormund agrees.

Jon sighs. "Me too. Not much of that in London."

"No. Suppose not."

Jon sips more vodka - they're almost out, which is good because he feels a little blurry - and hands the bottle back. "Finish this?"

Tormund obliges, and then he makes a small noise of revelation to himself. "Have you ever been to Brighton?"

"Yeah," Jon says. "Ages ago."

"We could get a night bus," Tormund muses, "go now."

Jon barks out a laugh. The idea sounds mad, but he’s buzzed and it’s cool and quiet here with Tormund, and he’s the first person who hasn’t looked at Jon like he’s thick today. "Sure."

"Yeah?" That eyebrow again; a glint of mischief. "Really?"

Gods. He can't make himself say no now. "Yeah," he laughs, "All right."

"Yes! Let's go." Tormund's arm closes around him and squeezes. He's huge, engulfing. Jon can't help but laugh as he's bodily guided toward the closest tube station.

Then they're both laughing, stumbling down to the platform together. They tube-hop to Victoria, and then loiter in the coach station for the last service to Brighton. Again, Jon finds himself peering at Tormund under the fluorescent lights, taking in the freckles; blonde eyelashes. People keep giving him second looks. Jon honestly doesn't know if it's the ripped flannel and denim, or the fact that he's stunning.

That revelation makes him choke on his own breath. Because it's true, and Jon's not immune.

"Where are you going after this?" he asks, voice rough from the stage now.

"Another club in London, s'all."

"And then?"

"Edinburgh I think? We’ve got a little tour lined up."

"It's nice up there," Jon says mildly, "good countryside."

"Aye," Tormund agrees. "Not round the clubs, mind."

"I suppose not," Jon laughs.

Tormund throws an arm around him again as they board the coach. "You're so tiny, like a little bird," he says, affectionately, "you look so wary. What are you wary of, Snow?"

"Everything," Jon grumbles.

"Including me."

"Not - uh. Not so much? Maybe a little." Jon blushes again.

Tormund ushers him into a window seat and drops down beside him, leaning into his space until Jon meets his eyes. "I take no for an answer. But I'd love to hear another yes."

"What's the question?" Jon asks, slightly breathless at their proximity.

"Are we going to Brighton as new mates, little crow? Or as more?"

"That's not a yes or no question," Jon points out, heart jerking in his chest.

"Break it up into two, then, professor."

"I don't usually..." Jon stumbles a little on the words: it hadn't occurred to him he had options. "I'm. I. You sound like you have a preference."

"Not so's I'd be offended if yours didn't match."

Jon thinks, hard, about how likely it is he'll see Tormund again. How likely it is he'll ever see someone like him again. He swallows. "Maybe more."

Tormund raises a brow, but his lips curve in a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Thank you," Jon says quietly, feeling his face glow with heat. "I'm sorry, this is... I'm not impulsive, usually."

"Everyone deserves a break from the usual."

"I suppose so. Not that usual is bad but it's- well. It's not this." He lets himself study Tormund's cheekbones and lips.

"Not me," Tormund surmises, not without satisfaction.

"Not you," Jon repeats.

Another grin, even slyer somehow. "Then I like this break from the usual."

Tentative, Jon reaches out touches his hair where it spills and bounces off his vest collar. It's softer than he expected. "I like it too," he admits.

Tormund smiles, more gently than before. He reaches out with his hand splayed to gently thumb a smear of stray makeup off Jon's cheek. "Pretty underneath it, crow." Jon scoffs in mock offence. "Blushing underneath it," Tormund says more quietly. For him, anyway.

"No I'm not!"

But he is. Tormund laughing at him just makes it worse. He hides his face in the broad shoulder. And then both of them quiet when he remembers himself and pulls away, ears burning.

They can pass it off as drunkenness, sure. He is certainly drunk. But he knows the truth.

Maybe Tormund does too, because he's quiet until the coach lurches into motion, when he leans into Jon's space where he's determinedly looking out the window. His hand covers Jon's knee warmly. "How's that?"

"How's - it's - it's all right," Jon breathes.

Tormund chuckles at him. "You weren't kidding about it being unusual."

Jon shakes his head. He watches Tormund rummage in his pockets until he produces a hipflask with another grin.

"Oh, I see how it is. Holding out," Jon teases.

"Holding it out, absolutely." He offers it.

Jon makes a face and takes it, taking a surreptitious sip. It's strong, and he takes a sharp breath after he swallows and passes it back. Tormund takes his own sip, complacent as ever.

"Tell me about yourself, then."

"I'm twenty," Jon starts hesitantly. "From Sheffield. I'm in the band with my brother and two sisters. Ah. Half brother and sisters, really."

"You're the half?" He nods. Tormund tilts his head, weighing that, and then nods to himself. "Young," he replies shortly.

"How old are you-?"

"Twenty-eight. Old enough to know better, young enough to not give a fuck," he chuckles.

Jon laughs along, overwhelmed. Tormund has so much presence and charisma - and he's here with _Jon_. They quiet and glance at each other once again. "What else?" Jon asks tentatively.

"What else do I want to know?"

"Sure. Or… What else do you want to tell me?"

Tormund smiles at him again in the dim light. "I want to tell you a lot of things."

"We've got time," Jon gestures around them at the mostly-empty bus.

"I'm from a big family," Tormund starts, reasonably, "descended from tribes that used to live in the woods back home. Most of us are blonde - not me of course. I'm the oldest of my siblings. The loudest. Seemed only sensible I joined a metal band."

"Of course," Jon agrees.

"We've been together for about seven years, it was part time at first - this is the first time we've managed to actually make a little money." He chuckles at that.

"Must be nice," Jon laughs agreeably with him. His band hasn't - not yet - not that they, strictly speaking, _need_ to. He feels faint embarrassment at that; pushes it down and focuses back on Tormund, so much more bright and alive than his thoughts could ever be. "What're you guys called?"

"Giantsbane," Tormund crows.

Jon smiles. "Like your name? Is that even your real name? Are you like the Ramones?"

"It's a stage name. We're better than the Ramones."

Jon snorts. "You have to say that, don't you?"

"I happen to believe it." He touches Jon's knee again. "I really would love to see you at a gig."

"Want me to see you in action?"

"Do I ever." Tormund crooks an eyebrow at him playfully.

Jon has to laugh. "With an invitation like that, how can I refuse?"

"Don't," Tormund says easily.

"Alright, I won't." He has no idea how to work this, but his slightly plastered thought processes see no issues. He's sure he can swing it somehow. Arya will help him, if nothing else.

Tormund looks so pleased, it's immediately worth it. Jon leans their shoulders together a little more. They're quiet for a while then, until Tormund raises a hand and gently scruffs Jon's wild tangle of black curls.

"Gonna swim in the ocean with me, crow?"

"Aye, sure," Jon grins, "please make sure I don't drown."

"You got it," Tormund replies. They quietly pass the flask back and forth and murmur until they arrive at the station.

Tormund jostles him good-naturedly as they leave the coach. It's good to stretch, though Jon can confess to a slight weave as they start down the gentle incline toward the dark town. The dark means Tormund's arm finds him again. He's a furnace against the chill, and Jon leans into his warmth, grateful.

Brighton still seems plenty alive, little brightly coloured houses lit from within, several bars and late night off-licences bustling with activity. Jon feels faint trepidation, walking past the crowds of overflow outside the bars with Tormund’s arm around him, but either no one notices or it’s true what they say about this place. 

Comfortably quiet, taking in the sights, they continue until they can follow street signs to the beach. The pier in the distance is still glowing and whirling with late night fair goers. Jon blinks at it, out of focus, lights sparkling on the waves.

"It looks prettier from far away," he says, leaning.

"It is pretty," Tormund murmurs, but he's not looking at the pier. Jon knows because he makes eye contact, then shies nervously. Then he screeches when Tormund picks him up and runs down the beach.

"I swear to you, if you dump me in the water -"

"I'm going to dump you in the water."

"Tormund!" He's ignored, and Tormund is wading purposefully into the water now. "We have no clothes, Tor, I -" his voice rises.

"Jon Snow, stop thinking." And Tormund of the ripped flannel and the Viking beard dumps him straight into the surf.

It's freezing, and when Jon throws himself upright, he feels distinctly more sober than when he went in - but then laughter crashes on him with the force of the waves. Crowing, he throws his wet self squarely at Tormund. Sends him crashing down into the water where they both thrash and howl.

It becomes somewhat of an endurance test. Jon scrambles up and tries to run, but the water holds him like treacle and Tormund has weight on his side, picking Jon up and whirling him around while he screams and laughs himself breathless. They kick the water at one another and try to outrun the waves until the numbness afforded by alcohol starts to give way to the cold.

Eventually, they haul themselves up the sand out of the reach of the waves. They're still laughing, breathless and thready. Jon doesn't falter when Tormund reaches out and wipes some of the grime off his face with his shirt hem, just touches Tormund's tangled mane, pushing it back from his face. He can't help looking at him, wild and bedraggled from the water, the piercings in his ears and nose gleaming in the light. He can't help the sigh he exhales.

Tormund touches his chin, and smiles. "Even prettier than I thought."

Jon licks his lips, and the fingertips find them too. When Tormund leans in, Jon closes his eyes and tries not to let his breath stutter. _Relax_, he tells himself fiercely.

"Do I need to dunk you in again?" Tormund whispers.

"No," Jon squeaks. He laughs then, and Tormund is laughing too, and then they're kissing, tentative and then firmer, warm and tasting of salt and booze, and Jon feels _good_. It races through his veins like the shock of the water itself.

Tormund touches his hair and makes a satisfied noise against his lips. "I've been waiting for that all night," he rumbles.

"I think it was a relatively short wait," Jon chuckles.

"Felt eternal. Didn't like it." Tormund winks and kisses him again. More demanding this time, more sure.

Jon gasps and clutches him closer. Tormund's fingers tangling in his hair send a shot of heat to his core. Just a_ yes,_ and a _good,_ and a _please more_. He's barely even aware of the cold. 

Tormund rumbles his pleasure against his lips, wrapping a strong arm around him. When he pulls back, Jon is panting softly, reluctant to let him pull back. He feels quite drunk again.

"Tor," he says wonderingly.

"Little crow," Tormund sounds fond.

"Do that again."

Tormund does, hauling Jon bodily into his lap, their wet jeans creaking together. He shivers, feeling Tormund warm under the wet cloth. He handles Jon effortlessly closer. Jon wasn't sure until just now how much he liked that. Now, it shocks a little groan out of him; he feels it echoed in the jump of Tormund's muscles.

"Doesn't seem too unusual, Snow," he rumbles, grinning.

"Are you asking if I know what I'm doing?"

"You don't need to know, if you know what you'd be doing with anyone else."

"Gonna take care of me?" Jon breathes.

"Boy, I'm going to do more than that," he grins. He seems unconcerned about the fact that, as of yet, they're not in much position to do anything, wet and cold and on a windy British beach in the middle of the night. Jon can't help going along with it.

With a chuckle, Tormund nudges him up and they walk down the beach, elbows brushing. The landscape is transformed in the dark and Jon can't stop looking at the glittering pier. "Want to go down there?" Tormund asks.

"We're saturated," Jon laughs.

"Well, whose fault is that?"

"Well, yours!" 

Tormund just laughs. "I know a hotel that's open all hours. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"Me? What about you?"

"I'm not the one who looks like a rainy mime."

"You wanker," Jon smacks him.

Tormund just laughs again. "I never said I didn't like it."

"Well I know that." Jon's voice is faintly scandalized. Tormund seems to like that too. He herds Jon through the streets, still fairly crowded, stopping off at a corner shop for a range of supplies including, but not limited to, more beer. 

The other items make Jon’s cheeks burn even now as they walk further, until they get to a street of tall townhouses, several with signs for bed and board.

They've all seen better days. The one Tormund shows him to has seen _much_ better days, but it has free rooms and it's cheap. They each pony up half the cash, and take the key from a bored desk clerk. Her indifference makes Jon feel a little less conspicuous; less green. 

So does Tormund's nonchalance. He shows them to their little room, smoothing his damp hair back and shrugging off his wet outers without hesitation. Shirtless, he goes into the little bathroom, and Jon hears the sound of water running. "It's even warm, crow, get your arse in here."

Intrepid, Jon does, laughing when Tormund briskly starts to strip him out of his jacket and shirts. Then he gasps when Tormund steals a kiss as well.

"What? That not allowed?"

"Ye-es," Jon says, reaching for his hair. The brush of their bare skin is electric. Shirtless, they collide with the bathroom door.

Jon manages not to shy too much when Tormund unfastens his drainpipes, but he does let out an entirely mortifying whine. Tormund laughs at him, as he's prone to, and goes down to his knees to undo Jon's boots; help him step out of the jeans. Jon does, obediently, trying not to think of how good he looks down there. Then he returns the favour, uncovering more tattooed skin; more surprisingly endearing freckles. A lot more of both.

Then they're both down to their underwear, and Jon feels even smaller and meeker before Tormund. But only until he sees how Tormund looks at him. Hungry, keen - the slightest bit smug. It's about as good as Jon could imagine, really. He lets Tormund tug him over to the corner bath.

"In we go."

Jon only hesitates a moment, but Tormund immediately tuts and starts to tug down his soaked shorts. Jon stiffens.

Tormund pauses. "Jon-?"

"Sorry, it's not - I'm fine."

Tormund puts his hands on his hips gently, and waits, and Jon leans in and kisses his chest. He feels fingers gently tousling his hair. It's so warm now, skin-to-skin.

"I'm not very good at this kind of thing," he mutters.

"You're fine."

Jon disagrees, but he daren't argue. Then he goes for Tormund’s waistband himself, and he lets him, expectant without being pushy. It's easier, Jon thinks, when it's him doing the looking. 

Tormund is still beautiful and imposing even naked, ink and copper. Jon has to marvel at all the stout muscle; scattered freckles and hair. He touches hesitantly at Tormund's chest, following the marks there.

"What do they mean?"

"Clan marks," Tormund replies.

"They're beautiful."

"Thank you." His eyes are sparkling. Jon is drunk and charmed. Charmed enough to finally push off his own briefs. Tormund pulls him close and covers his bare hips with his hands. "Look at you. Gods, Jon."

"What about them?"

"They made you perfect," Tormund grins.

Jon's mouth is still open in shock when Tormund bends to kiss him. He groans into it. All too soon it ends, and Tormund is pulling him into the bath. The water is steaming hot and makes him gasp instead.

It's good though, flushing his skin and taking away the last of the grit. Tormund tips his head back into the stream and lets it flood his curls. He looks like a god in himself, water glittering around them, tugging his hair into spiralling motion as he shifts. It makes Jon's insides tingle, to watch.

He can't help the way his eyes slide down Tormund's body. They follow the glittering water down to where he's hard and ready and unashamed of either. Jon weighs his own reaction, and then does all he can think to and leans up on his knees, over him in the water. His hand on his flank asks for permission to press closer between his knees.

Tormund grins and leans back. He accepts Jon's weight down against him as he kisses him deep. His arm brackets his waist.

The press of their bodies is warm, solid. The water laps gently against them both, cradling. Tormund is scattered with piercings, and Jon feels warm metal against his chest and reaches down on instinct to skim a thumb over the bar through his nipple, intrigued.

"You like, little one?"

Jon nods mutely, cheeks burning.

"I like it when you play with them."

"I- Tor..." he's overwhelmed with want at that, sudden and sharp.

"Do it again, that means," Tormund teases gently.

"Right, right-" he runs his fingers over the silver bar again. Then, dips his head to taste. Salt and skin and metal, it's so, so good. He purses his lips and flicks his tongue, feeling the way Tormund physically reacts. He wasn't expecting it. Certainly he wasn't expecting it to make his own stomach twist. "Where else do you have metal bars?" he asks helplessly.

"Why don't you take a look and find out?"

Jon takes him up on the suggestion. His mouth is dry at the next glint of silver he finds. "No fucking way."

Tormund chuckles. "Go on, you can touch that one too."

Jon takes a shaky breath and gently thumbs the twin balls that sit snug under the glans of Tormund's cock. He spreads his palm bravely down his length and feels the weight of him; the heat.

"I - Tor - fuck," he whispers.

"We should wash first," Tormund chuckles, arching just so into Jon's touch.

Jon's face is awash with heat. He's intent on his own movements; the water whirling around his wrist, the flush of Tormund's cock. When he looks up, Tormund cups his cheek.

"Come on, beautiful. You feel nice and warmed up."

Even so, he seems to take an inordinate amount of satisfaction in rinsing Jon of makeup and grime with brisk strokes of the single-use hotel washcloth. It's been so long since anyone has. He's still blushing, still clutching Tormund. Eventually he attempts to return the favor.

Tormund patiently endures it. They only emerge when Jon starts shivering. Tormund wraps him in a towel and scrubs his clean hair enthusiastically to make him snigger. Then he kisses him again, long and slow.

Jon is hard just at this; just at naked skin and kisses and anticipation. He considers fear, and if it applies here, and finds it truly doesn't. No uneasiness, no instinctive cringe at the thought of what this might mean. These lesser intimacies, he thinks, still feel greater than most he's shared with other hookups, other _partners_. Tormund is magnetic in a way he's not used to. He doesn't have the presence of mind to puzzle out why. Not drunk, or horny.

Tormund's hands sliding down to cup the tops of his thighs pulls him sharply out of his thoughts. "How far do you want to go then, little crow boy?"

Jon pants lightly against his chest, thinking about it. "You tell me."

"I'm trying to be a gentleman here," Tormund protests lightly.

"Meaning you really don't want to be," Jon laughs.

"Not in the least, Jon Snow."

Putting the ball back in Jon's court. He bites his lip as the answer arrives in the back of his mouth, hesitating only a moment before letting it out. "I don't think I want y'to be one."

Tormund's eyes light up. "Then I won't."

The next thing Jon knows he's being picked up - again. He's starting to like it. He's starting to like it a lot. Tormund deposits him on the creaky little bed and sinks down over him.

Jon can feel him, the drag of velvety hot skin and metal. He arches almost unconsciously, gasping when Tormund's lips find his throat. He sucks hard enough to leave a mark. Jon hooks his fingers into his damp curls and holds on. He'll let himself go for a ride.

Tormund is soothing over the mark with his tongue, one broad, hot palm sliding down Jon's trembling stomach. He curls a calloused hand around his cock, startling a little cry out of him that makes him immediately blush. Tormund kisses that too, starts to stroke him gently, the motion enveloping, massaging. It's slow and consuming, and Jon's head spins. His body arches needily.

“Oh, Gods.”

Tormund seems to crave the contact, the taste of him. His tongue travels into the dip between collarbones. Jon gasps at the sensation; bucks into his hand, but Tormund holds him steady.

"All right, gorgeous," he says, voice low and gentle. "Do you want me inside you?" Jon is struck dumb by the notion for a moment, but his body reacts for him, cock giving a pulsing twitch, and Tormund favours him with another one of his sly smiles. "Aye then."

"I think so," Jon whispers, turning his cheek into Tormund's warm palm when he strokes his hair.

"Good," Tormund rumbles.

"I want to do other stuff too," Jon blurts, and then sighs at himself. "I want to touch you, I don't want to just - lie here."

"I liked you touching me. Do it more now." Tormund rolls them onto their sides. He pulls Jon close, their lips drifting back together.

Jon traces a tattoo on his chest. He's fascinated by the freckles between the inked lines, and how it makes Tormund seem to purr. He grips Jon close with a heavy sigh.

Touching leads to kissing. Jon tracks a path across Tormund's shoulder. He finds a ticklish spot, to his astonishment, and exploits it with soft sucks. Then he moves down the broad chest, pushing Tormund gently onto his back as he explores his ribs and stomach.

And more ink, of course. Intricate patterns; dragon scales and feathers and turning oceans. The black is stark against his creamy skin, untouched by sun. Covered by blonde-copper hair on his lower stomach and chest.

Feeling daring, Jon rubs his beard against it. Tormund's fingers gently clench in his hair. He kisses the soft skin.

"I'm not going to be good at this," he warns.

"I have faith in ye."

"Do you have - we need protection?"

"Yeah, grab the skins from the bag."

"Where?" Jon moves to search for the carrier.

"By the door, love."

Jon is seized by self-consciousness. “It’s not like I think you’re… or anything, but - people are always saying to be careful."

"It's all right, Jon." Tormund's hand soothes across his skin. “I agree.”

Jon sighs at himself and takes the bag back to the bed, kneeling beside Tormund, warmly received with wandering hands. His fingers find the box of foils, and Jon rips one out and opens it up, trying to ignore how his hands are shaking. It's not like he hasn't done this before. Sort of. How hard can it be?

He rolls the rubber on slowly and shifts himself closer between his knees. He's intimidated, but motivated by Tormund still touching his hair, gentle caresses.

Slowly, Jon dips his head and tastes his inner thigh, a kiss, and another, and then he curls his hand around Tormund’s cock and licks at the soft skin of his balls carefully.

Tormund lets out a quiet gasp. His fingers comb through the tangled curls more fiercely now as Jon sucks and kisses, fingers spreading over lean hips. He's quietly marvelling at the pale thighs; winding ink. Such a beautiful man, and he's being so patient, sighing softly as Jon draws his tongue up to the rubber. 

It doesn't taste fantastic, but it doesn't matter. The warmth feels good, and Tormund's hand tightening feels _good_. He makes a pleased noise.

"That's it," Tormund praises quietly.

Jon makes a noise in his throat. He closes his lips over the head of Tormund's cock and cautiously sucks; traces the piercing with his tongue, and feels the way Tormund's cock jumps against it.

"You like that," Jon breathes before taking him in again.

"No shit I liked it." A soft laugh woven amongst the words. He still strokes Jon's hair, a rhythmic, ceaseless motion, fingers tightening just so when Jon sucks in a steady rhythm now, brows drawn in concentration. He wants it to be good, but it feels clumsy and too much, at first, making him stall. 

He takes a breath; tries again. It’s easier with time, and the ache and pressure in his throat still has Jon suffused with warmth, the fingers in his hair keeping him close, and Tormund's gentling voice.

Finally he's tugged free. "Enough, little one."

"I don't have to stop?"

"You do if you don't want this to be over soon."

Jon huffs in faint disbelief. "You'll let me keep going," he murmurs.

"If you want," Tormund nods. Jon licks his lips and Tormund smiles at him softly. "There's time for more later, though."

Jon shivers a little at the _more_, dipping his head for another taste of him. He concentrates the rub of his tongue over the bar again, raising a hand to thumb gently over his sack; stroke the root of him as he sucks soft and open-mouthed. It may not be skilled, but his mouth waters for the stretch of Tormund's length.

When he slides him into the back of his throat, Tormund hisses quietly. His thighs tense underneath Jon. He makes a low, satisfied sound, hands carefully keeping Jon from going too far, his hips occasionally twitching back. The deep, measuring breaths he takes sound familiar: he's pacing himself.

He's watching closely, Jon can feel it. It's a good feeling, electric heat down Jon's spine. Fingers tousling through his hair. He notices the way Tormund's thighs shift more restlessly under his hands, bare twitches of movement.

This time, Jon pulls off on his own. He wipes his mouth, watching Tormund; heaving chest and dark eyes. "Good?" he whispers.

"Plenty good, little one. Here-" As Jon reaches for him, tugging him up for a kiss, Tormund pulls him into his lap with warm hands. 

Jon’s skin tingles wherever they touch. Tormund cups his cheek and kisses him, sighing, and rolls them over again. It makes Jon gasp and laugh. He loves the feel of the large, warm body over him with all its planes of muscle. He loves the low, rumble of his voice as he murmurs Jon's name; a few soft swears.

"C'n I fuck you now, Jon Snow?" Tormund murmurs.

A shaky breath escapes Jon at the words. He reaches up to touch his shoulders; feel his heat and nods. Fingers slip down to his cleft almost immediately, stroking gently, his other hand guiding Jon's knee against his flank.

"That's good," he murmurs.

"Glad to hear it." He presses at Jon's entrance, as gently as big hands can. Jon shivers at the feeling, a little rough, dry, so intimate it makes his throat tight. He pulls his hand back after a moment. "Spit," he murmurs to Jon.

"You spit!" Jon laughs, embarrassed.

“Yes, little prince.”

Tormund does without blinking. Then he grabs the open foil from the lubed condom and dribbles the last of it into his palm too, spreading the mix between Jon's cheeks with gentle fingers. He tips his cheek to kiss his knee, his other hand closing around Jon's cock.

"Want fingers first?" Jon nods, breathless. "Done this before? Yourself or otherwise?"

"My last girlfriend," Jon whispers.

A pleased little gleam to his eyes at that. "Just fingers?"

He shakes his head.

"Oh, Jon," Tormund closes his eyes for a moment as if to rein himself in. Then he slowly presses a finger inside him.

Jon arches, scalded by the feeling of Tormund's other hand on his inner thigh, spreading him open. Searching with his finger and leaning down to kiss Jon's chest, he stretches him wider with gentle movements of his hand. When he strokes deep, Jon gasps, and his thighs tremble. It feels so fucking good. Better than ever.

He tips his head back, flushing with his effort to keep quiet. He's not sure why he's bothering. Thin walls, he supposes. But, God. He wants Tormund all the way inside him. He grasps at him now; touches at his nipple bar with the other hand and cranes to kiss him.

The kiss grows teeth. Tormund eases in a second finger and strokes deep again, smiling at Jon's whine. "You like that, mm?"

Jon nods fast, breaths picking up. "It's really good, Tor - I want -"

"I know what you want. Like this, or do you want to move?"

"Let me ride you," Jon mutters, flushing.

A stuttered breath at that, and Tormund lowers his head to kiss him slowly. "Yes, of course." He lets Jon have a few more long twists of his fingers before he pulls back to let him up.

Jon does what he's wanted since he laid eyes on him and climbs him. Tormund grips him and holds him over his lap as Jon settles, their thighs brushing together. Feeling nearly dizzy with want, Jon shifts his hips and squirms, then huffs with frustration when the angle proves inopportune and Tormund gently turns him round; lines them up so Jon is sat back against him like he’s a human throne.

"Patience, sweet thing," he murmurs. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, yeah, please Tor."

Tormund kisses his shoulder and guides his cockhead to Jon's hole, pressing slowly in. His weight presses him down, and he groans at the sinking fullness. It's enough to drive him wild. He shakes and squirms as he sheaths himself fully on Tormund's cock, letting out a little cry at the stretch; the pressure.

"You took me in so nicely," Tormund whispers against his ear. His hands cup Jon's ribs as he shifts gently beneath him, and Jon gasps and stutters again, lifting his hips slowly. "Ride me," Tormund urges.

It's easy, with his hands guiding him. Jon circles his hips slowly, acclimatising to the feeling before he starts to rock. Tormund is bigger than any toy he's tried.

"Fuck," he breathes at the thought, "fuck, Tormund."

Tormund's hand circles his throat, tilting his head back. It triggers another little moan; Jon's hands scrambling for purchase until Tormund's other arm wraps around his chest, pulling them snug together. With a low vocalisation, he rocks his hips up, and Jon moans again. It's so good. He rocks back until they're both moving in sync. It's like music. Jon can hardly breathe with how full he feels, overwhelmed with sensation. Wordless pleas and gasps bleed out before he can stop them, and he's so hard still, already leaking.

"Touch yourself," Tormund tells him.

"Not yet." He wants to feel this, not rush.

Tormund takes to mouthing along the side of his neck. They're finding a smoother, shallower rhythm now, and the deep and grinding stroke of Tormund's cock has Jon panting in minutes. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He just grasps Tormund's; holds for him when he puts in a burst of harder thrusts, knocking the breath out of Jon.

"God, that's so good," Jon whines. "Harder, Tor-"

His hands shift and he pulls Jon down into his snapping thrusts, every push sending another bead of fluid dribbling down Jon's flushed cock. He's so close it hurts. But it's a pleasure separate from the usual - it's in his core, stoked and bellowed by Tormund hot inside him.

His head falls back against the broad shoulder behind him. He braces his hands against Tormund's thighs; arches his back to reclaim some of the momentum, rolling back into his movements. He feels surrounded by strength. It's overwhelmingly good.

"That's it, pretty little thing," Tormund croons. He seems to know how greedy Jon feels for this, because he fucks him harder for a moment before pulling back. "Wait." He starts to move.

"Tor-" Jon protests. Still, he lets him handle him blearily to his feet and nudge him round against the bed, hands braced on the mattress. When Tormund takes his hips and pushes back in, the slide is easy and slick. 

Jon groans deep in his chest. 

"Gods that's - fuck, perfect," Tormund gasps, tilting his hips. He can go even deeper, like this. More forcefully, at least, and that's perfect too.

"Fuck. Fuck," Jon chants. He feels so full, overloaded and hungry for more at once, bracing himself against the mattress and groaning. His cock drips onto the coverlet. He can feel Tormund's movements getting more stuttered. They match his own heaving breaths; urgent rocks back.

Slowly, achingly, Jon takes himself in hand. The first stroke elicits a soft hiss. He's so hard his skin feels stretched.

So hot and slick, and then Tormund's hand fastens around his and Jon has to settle back against him; groan low through his teeth as they stroke in tandem with Tormund's deep rocks. "Yes, yes, yes, please, please," he grits.

"Perfect," Tormund murmurs, "all hot and tight and perfect around my cock, boy."

Jon nods, whimpering again. He's so close; suddenly overwhelmed. Tormund doesn't let up. When Jon starts to come, Tormund's groan nearly eclipses his own.

He can feel himself clenching, great rolls of sensation. It comes from his toes, shakes him bodily until his thighs and stomach are splattered with his release; until he's entirely breathless; can't hold himself up anymore.

Tormund slows behind him, stroking up his back gently. His hips still snap, but slowly. It's a lot. Jon gasps softly, twisting his head back to kiss him. It's mostly gasps and teeth - Tormund can't seem to focus on anything but coming. He's holding Jon so tight it almost hurts, but it's good, grounding. Jon whines his name. Tormund is breathing low and rough, face pushed into Jon's hair, the last few surges slowing before he pushes deep and comes.

The noise he makes is long and guttural. Jon feels entirely held, and filled, and warm. He makes a satisfied noise that sounds like Tormund's name.

The scratch of his beard against Jon's neck makes him smile. He kisses it before pulling out carefully and disposing of the rubber. Jon has to sit down on the bed, shaky and flushed. He's aware he's a mess.

He lets himself tip over onto his back. Tormund's footsteps sound; his soft breaths. Then he curls around Jon, a wet cloth gently wiping him.

"I'm exhausted," Jon laughs, still breathless.

"Aye, an' me." He strokes Jon's hair back, then his hand travels down his chest, so gentle that Jon feels abruptly overwhelmed by it. "Come on lad, let's get you under the covers."

"You too."

"Aye, gonna get you some water."

"No, don't leave me," Jon protests.

Tormund stalls by the bed, and smiles. Kneeling onto the bed by Jon, he leans down to kiss him. "Just from the bathroom."

Jon grumbles but lets him. He can't stop watching Tormund's broad, inked back as he walks away. It almost feels like a dream. Maybe he's just that tired. But he drinks the water when Tormund returns. Sleepiness is tugging at him when Tormund climbs into bed and pulls him close. It's not hard at all to embrace it.

"You'll have to tell me about the first time you did that, if you feel like it," Tormund murmurs.

"Oh. I can?"

"If you feel like it."

Jon yawns. "I was seventeen and my girlfriend was older than me. She wanted to try it."

"Mm?" A sleepy, low rumble as Tormund strokes down Jon's chest.

"Yeah," Jon murmurs in reply.

"How did it go?"

"Could've been better."

"That's a shame." Tormund plays with his curls. "But you tried again."

Jon nods, flushing softly. "It feels so good," he whispers.

"It does," Tormund agrees. He sounds lazy and pleased and smug. He dances his fingers over Jon's ribs.

Arching into the touch, Jon leans to kiss him with a sigh. He doesn't want to sleep, if he can keep doing this. He toys at Tormund's wild hair; small braids and knots. Tormund watches him through satisfied, slitted eyes.

"Pretty little crow," he whispers.

Jon hums. "Not like you. You look like Thor."

Tormund cracks out a laugh. "Do I now? Maybe I am."

"You do." Jon shivers as Tormund encloses him more comfortably in his arms. He's just so content to be touched. He's still feeling warm and achy; completely fulfilled. He rubs his cheek against Tormund's chest.

"All right?" Tormund asks softly.

"Yeah," Jon murmurs. "I'm just - I'm glad I met you."

"Me too," Tormund agrees. Embarrassed, Jon fidgets. Tormund just strokes his hair. "What is it, Jon?"

"I don't usually do shit like this."

"Like what?"

"Run off with handsome strangers," Jon jokes.

"That's a real shame."

"Well, better late than never."

"Absolutely." Tormund kisses the crown of his head. "Sleep, Jon."

"You too."

"Mm, any minute now," Tormund murmurs.

It takes Jon longer than a minute, but he gets there. Feeling Tormund's chest rising and falling beneath his own is uncommonly soothing. He lets himself rest. Sleep feels deep and easy.

  
  
  
  


The next morning, he wakes in slow stages. He's warm, comfortable, barely hungover. All that physical activity, he thinks, blushing.

Tormund is still asleep, his hair practically glowing in the pale blue morning. Jon lets himself watch him sleep. He's fascinated by what he perceived as variables in sleeping with a dude; how inconsequential and naive that seems now. He just knows once won't be enough. But he's not sure his enthusiasm is for the act so much as the partner.

That's… inconvenient, to say the least. Trust Jon to get mushy over a hookp-up. He sighs. This is why he's dressed in black.

"I'm a fool," he mutters.

Tormund stirs slightly at the sound of a voice. He seems to settle again, and then stir, one warm hand finding Jon's hip even before he opens his eyes. "Jon Snow," he says with a satisfied tone.

"Good morning," Jon rasps softly.

"Don't you look half-wild in the mornings," Tormund grins.

"That's what happens with hair like this."

"I like it." He touches the rangy curls; slept on wet and post-coital, Jon is sure he looks a sight. But his face glows with fondness. "You're stunning," he murmurs. "God, I'm glad we stayed the night."

"Me too," Jon feels completely too earnest.

Tormund doesn't seem to care. In fact, he seems incredibly pleased. Jon leans up to kiss him carefully.

It's perfect; soft. Slow and easy. Tormund's hands smooth down Jon's back. "Hangover?" he asks.

"Not yet."

"Good. Hungry?"

"Not yet." Jon smiles.

"What are you ready for then, little one?" He seems to be amused even before Jon answers.

"Be a shame not to take advantage of the room before they kick us out."

A dangerously cocked eyebrow at that. "Oh really?"

Jon shrugs. "Am I wrong?"

"Definitely not." He pulls at Jon gently until he's sprawled mostly on top of him. "Sore?" he murmurs.

"I'm okay." Jon turns pink.

"Okay, that's good. C'n I blow you?" he asks like he's asking about the weather.

Jon sputters faintly. "If - I should probably shower -"

"Particular little crow," Tormund grumbles.

"Sorry if I don't want you to have to taste what eight hours of morning after tastes like," Jon grumbles back. Tormund grins and pulls him down for a kiss. It's entirely too good. Even with the morning breath. 

Tormund feels so good underneath him, lean and muscled and banked with warmth. His hands seek out all of Jon's soft skin. He's gentle, insistent too. Jon finds himself eager at the touch. He arches down, and Tormund makes a low noise of pleasure.

"Ah, that's good, little one."

"I'm not little," Jon grouses, half-heartedly.

Tormund just chuckles. "You are so little. Tiny."

"Hardly."

"Tiny," Tormund insists.

Jon shoves at his shoulder. "Don't!" he laughs.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Tormund says immediately.

"You're full of shit."

"Yes."

"At least you're aware," Jon huffs.

"Oh, am I ever." Tormund rolls his hips up exploratively. The evidence of his pleasure in the crease of Jon's thigh makes him sigh in content.

"Tor," he hums.

"Jon," he mimics. His hands bracket Jon's hips. "I want to suck your cock," he repeats, a little more insistently. And he tugs.

"But-"

"I don't care, fuck-" His eyes glow, and he tugs Jon up his body. Big hands mapping his thighs and hips as he guides him up to his chest.

Jon just goes; he can't resist. When Tormund leans up to kiss his stomach, he shivers. He reaches out to touch the ginger curls.

“We need a condom-”

“Jon, have you ever actually gone without one before-?”

“Well, no, but-”

“If you want me to I will,” Tormund says, seriously, “but I would love to taste you.”

Hesitating just barely, Jon bites his lip, and then he nods. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Tormund mutters, kissing lower. "God, you even smell good." 

His beard tickles. Jon shivers and thumbs under the cut of his cheeks, chest and cheeks flushed. Watching Tormund nuzzle against his cock is so obscene.

"Fuck," he whispers, leaning his knuckles against the headboard for support. He's not quite hard yet but he's getting there. Even just a few passes of Tormund's hand is enough. Then - his lips, tickling beard.

Jon closes his eyes at the heat of his enveloping mouth. He groans, leaning a bit harder against the headboard. It's so good. Nearly too good. He's so good at this. Jon gasps at another long stroke of his mouth.

His hands on Jon's hips are tight. His mouth is soft and endless. He strokes with his tongue, around and around. Jon has to grip at his hair, thighs shaking. "Tor-"

Tormund hums. He doesn't stop. It's so good, Jon hardly breathes. He doesn't have to do anything, Tormund just moves him as he likes. He's sucking him wet and rapid now, the noises obscene. Jon can feel himself drawing tight.

"Tormund," he chokes, nearly pleading - it's so fast, already pooling in the pit of his stomach. It's like his body is being played, Tormund finding all his hidden keys and frets. The sound is deafening. His hearing buzzes first, then his vision, going staticky like a broken tv, "Tormund!" He warns again.

Tormund won't let him pull away. It's rushing up to claim him. He keens out a wordless noise and Tormund picks up speed. Jon's toes curl against the mattress as he cries out and tenses.

Tor never lets him out of his mouth. It's the fastest Jon has ever come in his life. He'd be embarrassed - more embarrassed - if he wasn't sure that was exactly what Tormund wanted. He's still holding him as he shivers out the last of it, eyes closed and brows drawn with intent. Jon just stares at his face. There's something uncomfortably grateful in the pit of his stomach. He's never been savoured like this.

Tormund pulls back slowly, and kisses each of Jon's hips. Jon lets him tip him over beside him. "I want to touch you too," he whispers.

"Then touch, little one."

"Tell me what you'd like..." he leans to kiss him, needing his skin, his warmth.

"Your hands would be all right," Tormund mutters.

"All right?"

"Really good, little crow. Those bass callouses..."

"You're weird," Jon says, with no small measure of fondness.

"I know what I like."

Jon accepts another long kiss as he slides his hand down to curl around Tormund's heavy cock. He loves the feel of it, so hot and thick in his hand. Tormund's breath rushing against his lips is good too. They're not quite kissing, more just breathing in time. Jon strokes slow, smearing his fingers over the head, feeling the wetness that's purely from sucking Jon. He circles his fingertips in it.

"Tormund, god."

The big body next to him shivers. Tormund curls an arm around him, turning into his warmth as Jon strokes him again, going gentle over his piercing. Remembering, Jon dips his head too. He tongues gently over his nipple with a sigh.

Tormund groans softly. He yields a little more, and Jon strokes faster.

"So good," Jon whispers, “can’t believe I had all this inside me last night.”

Tormund makes a low noise of agreement. He's holding very still. Thighs spread and tensed, hips rocking just barely. Jon sucks harder at his nipple bar, fist working. Breath shaking out, Tormund grips at Jon's hair. Jon would smile. It's good to please him; to make him react. To feel him shudder at a simple touch. Jon palms down low over his balls; rolls them gently with his other hand as he strokes back up.

"God, fuck," Tormund gasps.

Jon bites his lip at the break in his voice. He whines deep in his own throat. The slickening path of his hand, the sounds of the contact, it's so much. "Good," he mumbles.

Tormund presses their foreheads together now, meeting his gaze. "Jon, it's perfect - that's it, boy."

Jon gasps and keeps stroking. Tormund tenses, drawing tight. "Good," Jon repeats.

Tormund's agreement comes as another harsh groan. His hips jerk erratically. Jon feels the first spilling strands of his orgasm and strokes faster. He craves the rush over his hand. Tormund's grip on him getting ever tighter is just a bonus. He hopes it bruises. Hopes he remembers the sound he makes, forever. It's so beautiful.

Jon clutches him as soon as he can tear his hands away. Tormund slumps into him with a happy sound. It makes Jon laugh, but it's fond.

"I like you," he mumbles.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, s'true."

"The feeling is mutual." Tormund sounds amused; affectionate.

They curl together for long enough that Jon thinks he might fall asleep again. Then, Tormund gently strokes his hair.

"We need to clear out of here," he says regretfully.

"Yeah," Jon sighs. He's not ready.

Sensing it, Tormund squeezes him. "Let me take you for some breakfast?"

"All right," Jon murmurs, barely hesitating. It's not that late. Sound check isn't for hours. Tormund is surely in the same boat. Hopefully there's some overlap.

He lets himself be tugged out of bed. They shower up quickly, their clothes more or less dried in the warm room overnight. Jon's feel stiff with salt, the black of his jeans creased with white lines of residue. He makes a face. Tormund looks similarly dishevelled, though he wears it well. And he wraps up Jon in a bear hug when he's done.

"Ulk-!" Jon laughs into his chest, squeezing him back. "Breakfast, you lug."

"Yes, m'lord." He turns Jon and steers him out, down the stairs, past the desk to throw in their keys. Jon tries not to giggle at him too obviously. He doesn't need the encouragement.

  
  
  


Tormund possesses exactly as little shame sober as he does drunk, Jon soon learns. It's astounding. He herds Jon through the Shambles, both of them lingering at stalls and shops until they come to a little indoor market, spilling over with vintage clothes and bric-a-brac. Without missing a beat, Tormund picks up two ridiculous hats and proffers one to Jon.

Jon just shakes his head. Then, he dutifully takes the hat - a large pink Stetson with glitter on the rim - and puts it on.

"Perfect," Tormund declares. He dons his own large sunhat and continues browsing, turning to drape a feather boa around Jon's neck.

"This isn't breakfast," Jon grumbles.

"It is delicious though."

"Ha ha."

"You're not having fun?"

Jon blushes. He is, undeniably. Shaking his head, he pushes the hat off Tormund's head and presses in to kiss him quickly. Maybe he shouldn't be, not in public. The size of Tormund, though, the place they're in - he'll take his chances. He wants to, is the point.

Tormund knocks the hat back and shoves it on a nearby shelf as he curls a hand into Jon's hair. It's almost like they didn't just get off half an hour ago. Finally, Jon shrugs off the boa, and they meander back out onto the street. He leans into Tormund; lets him pick feathers out of his hair and steer him into a cafe.

They both get fried egg sandwiches and chug coffee. The sky is grey and heavy, but the air feels clear as they walk back to the station. The salt makes everything feel sharp. Everything except Tormund, who is warm and gentle and sweetly teasing as he nudges Jon into a window seat on the bus.

Jon is so happy to let Tor steer him around. He leans into him faintly as the bus lurches into motion. 

"So - did you always want to be in a band?" Tormund asks eventually, an uncharacteristically prosaic question for him.

"I mean - when I was little, I wanted to be one of the knights of the round table," Jon says.

Tormund chuckles and strokes his hair. "Of course you did."

Grinning, Jon shrugs. "This was all Robb's idea, but I didn't have anything else to do..." And hadn't wanted to be left behind.

"Do you like it? It's a hell of a lifestyle to commit to at someone else's behest."

"I just need to get away from people sometimes."

"Aye." Tormund touches under his chin. "You're shy aren't ye?"

Jon figures his blush speaks for him. "I'm. I just like my space."

"You seem to like my space too," Tormund teases.

A little chuckle at that. "So far."

"I'll take it."

Jon smiles. "What about you? You always wanted to play?”

Tormund laughs. "Yes. I love it." He hums. "I boxed for a while, but this was more fun."

"And better for you," Jon says.

"Yeah, I'm too pretty for all those black eyes."

"Also you get to keep all your teeth," Jon points out.

"Well, lost a couple, but more or less."

Jon pats his cheek. "I can't tell."

"It's the beard," Tormund chuckles.

Jon leans back and admires it. It is a spectacular beard. "Hiding lots of things, are we?"

"All my secrets."

"Any good ones?"

"Well, all of them."

"Any worth sharing?" Jon scritches under his chin with a little grin.

"I think our band is about to kick out the lead singer," Tormund says after a moment.

Jon raises his eyebrows. "Shit. How come?"

"Eh, he's an cock. Guitarist writes all our songs. He's popular with the audiences but -" Tormund shrugs.

"Who's gonna sing?"

"Guitar and bass, I guess." Tormund shrugs. "We'll see how we finish this run."

"I hope it goes well," Jon murmurs.

Tormund grins. "Well, me as well."

They grin at one another. Tormund presses their cheeks together briefly and Jon sighs softly. He wants to kiss him again. Instead, he takes his hand between their thighs. 

Tormund squeezes back. They ride the rest of the way in comfortable quiet. Jon thinks he dozes for part of it. A little hungover, aching slightly. He's comfortable with Tormund like this. The thought of them going their separate ways is unexpectedly unpleasant - Jon thinks they’re moving on right after their gig, but he can wheedle a little more time.

He'll at least get chance to watch Tormund’s set. If he can get there. He hopes he can get there. He'll have to get Arya on side, his most likely ally. Maybe she'll want to come with him. She'd like that, he thinks. He would too.

He smiles at Tormund as they disembark the coach. "Back to the clubs?"

"I suppose so." A little spark of reluctance there, too.

"How can I - how can I get ahold of you?" Jon mutters.

"I don't know, crow."

Jon sighs. "I can give you our address, back home," he murmurs.

"So I can send you a postcard?" Jon feels his face fall slightly. Tormund frowns at him. "Jon... it's a joke. I want it." He squeezes his hand. "I'll give you mine too."

"Good, good." Jon smiles at the pavement.

"Come on." Tormund guides him onto the underground with a hand on the small of his back. In fact, he stops them at a souvenir stand once they're back on the at Camden, buying two London postcards and borrowing a pen to scrawl his address across the back of one of them. He hands pen and cards to Jon with a raised brow and a grin. Jon can't help but grin helplessly back as he pens his address.

Tormund tucks it away solemnly. "There's still time to have a wander round the market, right?" he checks.

"No more silly hats," Jon instructs with a blush.

"What do you have against hats?"

"Nothing," Jon mumbles, letting himself be towed along. "I was thinking the comic shop."

"Aye, sounds good."

Of course, they seem to naturally divert into a record shop first. Tormund flirts gently with the shopkeeper before steering them both into a listening booth with a whole stack of records. There's a joint headphone jack, and they stand close with their respective sets on for a moment. Then Tormund tugs Jon in slowly by the hips.

A jolt of heat startles through Jon as Tormund kisses him to the rising tide of guitars. He makes a helpless noise. Tormund laughs and softly hushes him.

"Keep quiet, little crow."

Nodding, Jon beckons him close enough to kiss once more. He can't get enough. Even when they run out of listen time, Jon doesn't let him go for at least the length of another song. He breathes in, and out, savouring. "I've got an idea," he whispers.

"Tell me then," Tormund replies.

"There's a photo booth in the market, they just got it. It does instants."

Tormund waggles his eyebrows. "I've got enough cash left for that."

"Me too," Jon grins.

"Good, one set for each of us." Tormund tugs him out of the booth and the record store.

They stop in the comic book store a while, recommending, talking. They each buy a new book or two and then Jon smiles and steers him toward the photo booth.

"Shame we didn't get those hats," Tormund reflects mournfully.

"Stop it with the hats, you're obsessed," Jon teases.

"I just wanted us to look smart." But he's the one who tugs Jon through the curtain and onto his lap.

Jon grins and pushes a handful of coins into the slot. Then he bucks and squeals as Tormund tickles him.  
"Don't ruin them-"

He's laughing at the first flash, smiling in the second, lips hovering near Tormund's by the third. None of them are good - but that's what makes them good. Tormund stuffs a few more coins in the slot and pulls him back in, first grinning up at him then kissing him soundly. Jon blushes and shies, but his arm stays tight around Tormund's neck. They wait until the flashes of light subside and then duck out of the booth just like that.

"They're good," Tormund says approvingly, holding them up.

Jon takes a peek. They're shockingly intimate for twenty four hours. He doesn't say so, doesn't want to look any more desperate than he already does. He just accepts his copy of the photos and holds them against his chest for a moment as they walk through the market.

They buy a cone of chips and share them like the comfortably heavy silence that’s followed them since they met.

"This is ridiculous," Tormund mutters eventually, almost to himself. Jon sneaks a look at him. "This. You and me. We're ridiculous." He’s smiling helplessly.

"Maybe," Jon says doubtfully.

The smile widens. "I like ridiculous."

"God, as if I couldn't tell."

"Maybe that's why I picked you, little crow."

Jon blushes, "Fair enough."

Tormund smiles at him softly. "Yeah, there was that too." He pats his cheek.

"What-?"

"Your adorable blushing."

"Shut it. You've got _freckles_, that's like the cutest of all the features."

Tormund just smirks. "You're right, I'm adorable." He knocks shoulders with Jon.

"You are," Jon laughs.

"Damn right." He draws Jon into his side with a possessive arm. "Where were your guys staying last night?"

"Booker had a spare room, I think."

"And the rest of the time?"

"Depends. Sometimes just in the van."

"Oh, that's tragic."

"That's touring, I guess."

"You should get a bus."

Jon laughs. "We're not quite there yet, big shot."

"Nah, I don't mean-" Tormund chuckles.

Jon shakes his head. "I know."

Tormund plucks at a few errant curls. "You'll get there."

"Maybe." Jon thinks about it. Their father has actually offered to buy them a bigger van - Robb and Sansa had been bickering about it ever since. Robb wants to say no, of course. Sansa, the practical one, thinks they might as well. Robb is supposedly too proud. Jon is, as usual, staying out of it.

"Maybe you could give me your tour itinerary," he says, suddenly, "we could try meet up."

Tormund smiles at him. "It'll be a miracle if any overlap, love, but we can try." It feels like letting him down easy, but it also sort of feels like he needs to just _know_. "I'll get you a copy," Tormund promises.

Jon smiles down at the ground. They're getting close to the bar, the van parked in the grotty little lot round the back. He suddenly feels anxious at the thought of leaving. He bites his lip and keeps it inside. He might never see Tormund again. He presses against his pocket where he stored the postcard.

"When's your tour finish?" he says, feeling childish and desperate.

"August," Tormund says. "End of."

"For how long?"

Tormund shrugs. "We'll have a couple weeks off, at least."

Jon nods, thinking. "That'll be nice," he finally says.

"Be nicer if we can meet up. I put my home number on the postcard. Call me in August, we'll see where we're at. If we're still at it."

"All right," Jon breathes. He's stalled by self-doubt. "Is that too much-?"

"Not if I say it isn't."

"And do you say that?"

"Aye, little one, I think I definitely do."

"All right." Jon bites his lip, turning red. He pauses in the alley. He isn't actually sure how his siblings might react to Tormund - whether it'll just be another thing that makes him different to them. "D'you need to go now, or did you want to come in-"

"I had better go check in," Tormund interrupts, generously.

"Okay. Uh, me too. I'll try to come over later?" 

"I'll put you on the list, Jon Snow."

"There's a list?" Jon lights up with incredulity. "Are you guys... actually famous?"

"If you're a metalhead, maybe."

"Wow." He shakes his head. "Wow, okay."

Tormund just grins. "See you later, Jon."

"Later," Jon agrees softly. He takes a quick step towards Tormund and gives him a lightning-quick kiss before reaching for the alley door.

Tormund's soft laughter follows him for a moment while he goes inside. He smiles at his boots. It soon disappears when he sees Robb. 

"Where've you been?"

"Out," Jon shrugs. "Told Arya I'd be back by sound check."

"You look - clean. Sort of."

"Had a bit of a wash. Anyone else due for a run to the launderette?" he asks.

"I am," Arya pipes up.

"Good. After sound check?"

"Yeah, sure."

Robb grumbles and says, "Will you take things for me? Bran said he needs his jacket washing too."

"Yeah, sure, put everything in the laundry bag and we'll take it." 

Having passed the test relatively unscathed, Jon gets ready for soundcheck, and they spend a short while practising and warming up before the manager calls it done, releasing them until the gig later. 

Leaving their gear set up, Jon eyes Arya and asks, "Want to do that laundry, then?"

She looks like she wants to snap that she certainly doesn't, but instead, she takes the hint. "Okay." Jon goes back out to the van with her. "Where did you go then?"

"Brighton," Jon confesses.

"Brighton? What, last night?"

"There's a night bus," Jon mumbles, which he knows isn't answering her real question.

She watches him while they wrestle their various blankets into another bag - sleeping in the van is more common than not. "By yourself?" she finally asks.

"No. Not by myself. I need a favour."

She visibly bites back questions. "Yeah?"

"There's a band I like playing next door tonight, I want to catch the end of their set."

"You want me to cover for you?"

"Our set is a bit earlier, I just wanna run off and next door."

"You want company?"

"You can't cover for me if you come with me."

Arya laughs. "No, but Robb won't know who to be mad at. And now I'm curious."

Jon pauses, biting his lip. "Okay. If you want."

She smiles. "You're a weirdo. I'm glad you're my brother."

He privately isn't so sure she'll think that when she sees the person he spent the night away with. "Thanks, I'm glad I'm your brother too."

She hands him one of the laundry sacks. "So who'd you go with?"

"A friend."

"Someone I know?" She looks at him askance. They've spent a fair bit of time in London but Jon doesn't, as a rule, make many friends.

"No," he shrugs.

"Enigmatic." Arya doesn't push.

He smiles at her. They both shoulder a sack of laundry and trudge down the alley together.

"You're not looking as miserable as usual," Arya observes, "so I'm guessing your 'friend' was good in bed."

"Arya!" He hisses, feeling himself blush.

"It's boring when you pretend to be scandalised because I'm your little sister, you know."

"Maybe I'm just embarrassed!" Jon protests.

"What about?"

"I don't know… running off with a stranger for a one-night stand..."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about. It's not easy to have anything else out here." She sounds very sure. He decides not to acknowledge why. 

"Suppose not."

  
  
  


Together, they spend a pleasant couple of hours doing their laundry - Jon is happy to get the salt water out of his favorite jeans - and head back to the club. He has just enough chance to put his stage make-up back on; aggressively tease his hair. Sansa corners him and puts some of her lipstick on him. 

"Now we match," she says with a wink, shouldering her guitar.

He laughs, and smears the lipstick with the back of his hand as he follows her on stage, where Bran is playing the first couple of notes on the keyboard, throwing the audience into quiet.

The second show goes well, but Jon is barely present for it. They seem to have some returning fans and Jon thinks the club owner is pleased with the take, but when the last crash of Arya’s cymbal sounds, he doesn't stick around for the song-and-dance, just eyes Arya meaningfully and slings off his bass, sidling for the door.

She throws her sticks and pursues hurriedly. Her face when he leads her straight to the club next door is amusing. "I'm Jon, I'm on the list," he says to the bouncer there breathlessly, "we're a little late."

The bouncer eyes Arya, who eyes him right back impassively.

"She's my plus one," Jon says, "ask the band."

"Stay outta the pit," he tells her skeptically, and Jon tries not to laugh.

"Yeah, Arya, don't hurt anyone."

She lifts her nose and swans right in. It's crammed inside, hot and smoky, and the music is so loud. Jon squeezes after her, stealing glances up at the stage. When he gets a good view, he stalls entirely. 

The band is nearly all as huge and attractive as Tormund… but he still eclipses them all. He's astonishing. Jon is so distracted he doesn't notice Arya appearing at his elbow.

"Which one is it?" she asks casually. Well, shouts casually. She doesn't seem to care that they're all humongous metal dudes in ripped plaid.

Jon glances at her, apprehensive until she grins at him. "Drummer," he shouts back.

He watches her eyebrows raise, and then she laughs softly. "My god, Jon!"

"He - he's." Jon can't find any words he cares to scream over the drums. He just shrugs and gestures toward the stage.

Arya grins again and elbows him, then jumps up and down and starts to dance.

Jon watches her in amazement. She may be wearing a black jumper and jeans from their own show, but her expression, her burning energy, it fits right in here. Jon loves her so much.

As his gaze leaves her and returns to the stage, where Tormund moves so fast he's almost a blur, Jon feels his pulse spike just watching him. It's a good job it's warm in here. No one will think anything of his red cheeks. Eventually he puts his embarrassment aside and gets into the fray with his sister, and loses himself to hot bodies and the roar of the music. 

When the band finishes, they stand to a wall of screams, Tormund grinning among them. Jon's chest feels full. Especially when Tormund's eyes somehow find him in the crowd and visibly light up. He feels Arya's elbow in his side.

"Ouch," he says helplessly, but he’s distracted as Tormund jumps off the stage and makes a beeline for them. 

"God, why did you do that, Tor?" he mumbles, watching a dozen people stop him to shake hands or clap his shoulder.

Tormund is accommodating enough, but he keeps going until he gets to Jon. Him, he engulfs in a sweaty hug. He helplessly clutches at his arms, laughing into his chest.

"You're amazing," he shouts up to him.

Tormund gives him a squeeze, and then pulls him toward the bar, Arya close behind. Once they're in a small pocket of relative open space, Tormund looks at Arya and holds out a big hand.

"This is my sister, Arya," Jon says, blushing. "She's _our_ drummer." He nods at Arya. "This is Tormund."

"Pleasure," Tormund rumbles.

"You're great!" she tells him. "Good set!"

"Thank you! You're even smaller than Jon, I didn't know that was possible!"

Arya scowls at him, but Jon can tell she's mostly joking. "Double insult, nice." 

Tormund loops an arm around his shoulders, unrepentant. "You came," he beams.

"I did. We did. I'm so sweaty, god, how do you do this every night?"

"I drink a lot," Tormund winks. He gestures to the barkeep. "You guys want one?"

They look at each other, and Arya mimes a watch face on her wrist. Jon nods regretfully. They're testing Robb and Sansa's limits as it is.

"We're setting off tonight for Manchester," Jon says, regretfully.

"Aye. I got you our schedule?" Tormund pats his back pocket. "Can I walk you out?"

"Yeah," Jon says quickly, "please." He glances back at Arya, and she trails them to the side door, then smacks his shoulder. 

"Five minutes, then I tell them where you are."

"I - I'll come find you," he says quickly, "thanks." 

He turns to Tormund then, who's swigging from his bottle and leaning against the side of the building. He digs a piece of paper out of his pocket.

"Our tour dates," he supplies.

"Thanks," Jon murmurs. "Great show. Really. I'm glad I came."

"I'm glad you did and all." He looks around, then reaches out to tug Jon in by a belt loop. "I hope I see you again, little crow," he whispers.

"Me too," Jon says against his lips, accepting a quick, soft kiss. "Write me?" 

"Write me back." Tormund kisses him one more time, then lets him go.

Jon clings to his vest for a moment, and then makes himself step away, back towards the door. "Be safe, Tor. See you around."

Tormund gives him a solemn nod, shadows cutting deep into his eyes and cheeks. "Be seeing you."

He and Jon go inside their respective clubs, and Jon tries not to sigh. He's got an awful feeling like sadness burning in the base of his throat. But it's hard to feel much of anything when his sisters descend and rush him out another door and into their van.

With Robb driving, and Jon taking his turn in the back with the instruments, he's got more time to reflect as the city lights slide by. He thinks about the past day of his life, and how it very much seems like he's found something good - in the muck of an alley. In the sand of a beach. He just has to find his way back to it. He looks at the dates list; the address on the postcard, and decides he can.

He will, somehow. He has to. Not for his family, for once. Just for himself.

  
  



End file.
